


Catching

by FearNoEvil



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (as the author is a bit of a hypochondriac herself and could barely stand to read abou it), A bit of disturbing imagery, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Bossuet's Terrible Luck, Canon Era, Dialogue Heavy, Drinking & Talking, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondria, Mild Language, Musichetta is discussed (at length) but doesn't show up much, Platonic Cuddling, References to Historical Cholera Outbreak, mutual admiration society, nothing too graphic, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearNoEvil/pseuds/FearNoEvil
Summary: In which thinking too much about General Lamarque’s illness ruins Joly’s day, but then his best friend inadvertently interrupts the crisis by showing up with his head split open, and that somehow manages to salvage it.
Relationships: Joly & Bossuet Laigle
Comments: 17
Kudos: 7





	Catching

**Author's Note:**

> As I well know, hypochondria (at least as I experience it) is inherently irrational and ridiculous, and while it causes a lot of very real distress for which genuine empathy (rather than mockery or dismissiveness) is needed, being able to laugh at yourself in retrospect is, in my view, an important part of coping. It’s my dear hope, therefore, that this portrayal was able to strike the right half-comic, half-pathetic balance.
> 
> The title’s supposed to be a sort of pun on “catching” as the more poetic word for contagious/infectious, or in the sense of “catching” (contracting) an illness, along with the idea that these two friends were always “catching” each other when their various problems knocked them down. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! :)

It had all started when Courfeyrac brought them the news that General Lamarque was ill.

“Ill how?” Joly had made the mistake of wondering aloud, his morbid medical curiosity momentarily outweighing his self-awareness. “What’s he got?”  
  


“Cholera,” Courfeyrac replied, pulling a face of sympathetic revulsion.

“Like the rest of this damn country,” Grantaire grimly observed. 

“Not just _this_ country,” Feuilly corrected him. “It’s spread across the world! It started in India . . .” They all shuffled off to hand out more pamphlets, leaving Joly standing paralyzed while the vision of the poor old general took possession of him – trembling, sweating on his filthy sickbed, his gaunt, sunken eyes, the bluish tint of his chilled face, the agony burning within his gut –

Someone collided violently into Joly from behind, knocking him down to his knees, the pamphlets in his loosened grip fluttering down into a muddy puddle in the street before him – the filthy water of this grimy, poverty-stricken street where the poorest, most discontent came to them for the hope of change. The filth was there, on his own hands! The filth that was infecting this whole country – this whole world – with the slow agony of death by cholera!

Next second, however, someone was pulling him to his feet again – and it was Enjolras, of all people, asking him if he was all right, and shouting after the man who’d knocked into him to watch how he went.

He wasn’t sure what he muttered in reply, but it must have been the right thing, for Enjolras smiled, clapped him on the back, and thrust a fresh stack of unsoiled pamphlets into his muddied hands.

Furiously he tried to wipe the mud off his hands, so he didn’t distribute it with every pamphlet he handed out, didn’t spread the filth himself to every poor discontent he met. It was a difficult operation, as his hands were now trembling like wind-shaken leaves, but he managed to get the worst of it off before any filthy pamphlets left his hands. Suddenly, however, the crowds of filthy bodies seemed to suffocate him from every angle – their noise, their touch, their breath. He desperately wanted to get away, get home, to lock the door behind him, to shut out the all the horrors of this world and its infectious filth, but he’d promised his friends he’d help with the pamphlets, and what coward broke such a promise out of abstract terror? Nonetheless, his hands trembled as they passed the message of revolution into the hands of the huddled masses, and his whole frame trembled whenever one of them warmly shook his hand. Most of their hands were dirty, too.

The second the last pamphlet was out of his hands, Joly all but fled the square. He didn’t remember any time or distance between the square and stumbling into his rooms and slamming the door behind him, but the burning of his lungs and the protests of his bad knee indicated he must have run flat-out. His back leaning against the door, he sunk to the floor, heaving breath and starting to sob a little. All he’d held in all the time in the square began at once to pour out of him. He pressed his palms to his eyes, but then nearly screamed to remember how dirty his hands still were, and he hastened off to clean, only to find, when he looked in the mirror, the mud smudged all over his clothes where he’d desperately scraped it off to avoid contaminating the pamphlets. But if his hands were still this dirty, what good had it done? In a sort of panic, he tore off all his filthy outer garments until he stood before his mirror in his drawers and shirtsleeves, and scrubbed his hands until his basin was as murky as the puddle in the street.

But was it enough? Was it enough? If he’d caught it already, no amount of scrubbing would do him good. The cholera was decimating the country, the world, striking down even the strongest statesmen. The filth and contagion were everywhere, _everywhere_ , could penetrate through anywhere; his rooms were hardly immune! In vain he slammed his window shut, bolted the door, in vain climbed under his covers, pulled them over his head, curled himself tightly, and shuddered. All the world was shut out, but it could not protect him from what might already lie within. Already he felt weak, breathless, his stomach contracted, panic high and suffocating in his throat. All he had for release were trembling sobs. He wondered if he would ever leave this bed again, or if he would die here, alone. Would they have to burn everything in the room, to purge the world of his infected filth, even after he was gone? Could poor old Bossuet find somewhere else to sleep, if he and his rooms went up in smoke?

And Musichetta had left her favorite pair of dancing shoes here last time she’d visited. They were a lovely tiny pair, to fit her tiny feet, with lacy, beaded, flower-shaped rosettes, stitched elegantly in red and black to show her support for his cause. She loved those shoes; she’d dashed out (in more subdued church shoes), leaving them here saying she’d collect Joly, her favorite dance partner, and the shoes together next time she was in the humor to dance. If they had to burn everything, the shoes would be lost in the flames. Musichetta would be heartbroken to lose her favorite shoes. She would probably cry.

Why, why was it Musichetta’s wretched shoes, out of _everything_ – his own agonizing death, the long agony that preceded it, the fire to purge away his remains, Bossuet’s indigence – that now tormented him? What sort of absolute _madman_ lay under covers sobbing over _shoes_?

Suddenly, there was a loud banging at the door. His heart jumped into his throat. Surely it was not Death already? There hadn’t been nearly enough agony yet! Was it some inspector, investigating his involvement in seditious organizations? He tried to quiet his heaving breath. The banging came again.

“Jolllly, open up!” It was Bossuet’s voice, and it sounded a bit odd.

“I’m – I’m not – well,” Joly tried to tell him, but his voice was hoarse and weak and the sound barely penetrated the covers.

“I need your help, Joly!” Bossuet continued, sounding indeed like he hadn’t heard a word. “There’s – there’s blood, a lot of blood, I don’t know – if I’m – ”

This caught Joly’s attention. He scrambled madly off the bed, flopping onto the floor in tangle of blankets. “J-just a minute!” he called in a still strangled but louder voice.

“I say, why’ve you locked this, if you’re home? You never locked it before . . .”

Joly, wearing a messy robe of blankets and undergarments, at last answered the door. His friend stood before him – tall, strong, swarthy, bald, vaguely smiling, and with an enormous gash across his shining forehead from which blood was copiously streaming.

“Good God!” cried Joly, pulling him through the door and sitting him down on his tangle of a bed in one fluid movement. “What’s happened to you?”

“Well, you know,” Bossuet smiled, “you know my luck, my boy, always walking under falling tiles! Just happened to be walking by one particularly run-down tenement in the slums of Saint-Michel, the very minute our mistress Gravity had her say!” And he laughed heartily.

Joly had dashed over to his cabinet to fetch rags and various mysterious bottles. “Perhaps you should see a doctor?” he hinted patiently and he shakily poured one of them out into a cloth. Somehow the action and instinct of attending to his friend’s very concrete wound was lessening his own anxiety.

“Gone to see the best one I know!” Bossuet replied cheerfully, clapping him on the arm.

“But I’m not a _real_ doctor yet!” Joly protested as he cleaned out the wound. “And you know very well Combeferre is more advanced in his studies!” He gently tilted Bossuet’s head up to get a better angle. “Now hold still; let me look at your eyes.”

And he held either side of his head in place a moment, staring into his eyes for obvious signs of concussion. Then he turned to pick up the oil lamp sitting on his desk, and began scrabbling to ignite it.

“ _Your_ eyes look all red and puffy,” Bossuet noticed, having obediently stared back into them, and his face fell for the first time since coming in. “Something the matter, Joly?”

“Oh, n-never you mind,” Joly muttered, swiping at his face with his still-trembling arms and flaring the light of the lamp suddenly into Bossuet’s eyes, and watching them steadily. “Well, I think your brain is all right, but you haven’t stopped bleeding. Nothing to worry about; head wounds often look worse than they are from all the blood, but, er – you might need a couple of stitches.” And he turned back to his cabinet to retrieve his needle and thread.

“Is it Musichetta? Did she say something – cruel and mocking?” Bossuet pursued, watching his friend’s arms shaking as he rummaged through his supplies. “But I say! Her shoes are still here! That’s cause for hope! She’d never leave her precious shoes behind if she meant to leave you for – Joly?”

First there was a crash of shattering glass as whatever was in Joly’s hand slipped from his grasp, but a split second later, with a sound of agony, Joly had suddenly dropped to the floor in front of the cabinet, burying his face in his knees, his hands over his curly head, rocking forward and back, gripping his hair convulsively, and seeming to gasp for breath with a horrible rasping, choking sound.

“Joly! Joly, my dear boy, what is it? What is it, really?” Bossuet entreated in desperation, standing up in alarm and crossing the room in two strides to lay his hand on Joly’s quaking shoulder.

The scene, as was often the case with the pair of them, would have been utterly ridiculous to anyone watching – Bossuet with his head split open, bleeding all over the floor, coming to the aid of the wrecked, trembling, barely-clothed ball that was his great benefactor, his wise physician, and his dear friend. 

After a moment, Joly stilled slightly under his touch. Then without raising his head, he reached one hand up to grip the one on his shoulder. Then after a deep sigh that rattled his whole frame, he at last lifted his freshly tear-tracked face to look back at his friend, and, pointing at the bed, said softly and huskily, “G-go sit back down.”

“No, no, but you must tell me –”

“Presently!” Joly exclaimed raggedly, but with dreadful vehemence. “But first, I’ve got to stitch you up be-before you – l-lose any more blood! So sit _down_!”

Bossuet sat down, but not before offering Joly a hand to rise to his unsteady feet. He watched Joly at last locate his needle and thread, then return to the bedside brandishing them, along with another mysterious bottle. This he proffered to Bossuet, who took it. “It’ll h-hurt,” he said. “Try this. For the pain.”

“What is it?”

“Wine.”

Bossuet snorted a laugh as he uncorked it, and then barely stopped himself taking a large swig right from the bottle when he saw Joly retrieving a cup from the cabinet as well. He’d nearly forgotten, even for all the drinks they _did_ share, just how funny the man was about sharing drinks, never wanting their mouths to touch the same thing. (In his estimation, Musichetta’s lips were the only exception to this rule.)

He sipped his medicinal wine from the glass while Joly tried to steady his hands long enough to string the needle. Each failure seemed only to increase the violence of his trembling.

“God, you’re going to _bleed to death_ just because I can’t – I can’t –” he was exclaiming in breathless vexation.

Bossuet laid his hand again on one of Joly’s shaking ones. “Take a breath, my dear boy. You see, I’m far less concerned with my own bleeding to death than you are!”

Joly took a breath, and strung the needle on his next attempt. Very briefly, he smiled wide in victory, but next second he was off again in the same vain – that feeling _too_ relaxed could be a sign his body was shutting down from too much blood loss! Then he held up the threaded needle to begin. “Now brace yourself,” he said grimly, and set to work.

Again, though, Joly’s hands shook too much at first to properly aim the needle, until at last, after swearing viciously at the wall a moment, he locked eyes with Bossuet and they both took an enormous breath in unison. Then, gripping the latter’s shoulder painfully hard with his other hand, Joly held it just long enough get three quick, neat, steady stitches in before both exhaled. This was repeated twice more, and the third time, Joly also released both of his hands along with their held breaths.

“And I think,” Joly breathed, “you should be good.”

“Bravo,” sighed Bossuet, not objecting in the least that the needle was still hanging from his forehead, and massaging his slightly-crushed shoulder. He then clapped Joly’s shoulder as the latter exhaled again, sunk down to sit on the bed next him and promptly resumed trembling. “And you see, I’m still alive!”

Joly, head in his hands, gave a weak breath of laughter, and Bossuet reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask, which he offered his friend. “Try a little,” he said, “for the nerves.”

“What is it?” Joly wondered, looking up.

“Cognac.”

Joly giggled fretfully and accepted the flask, opening it but not drinking. He raised his eyes shakily to his cabinet again.

“Ah, yes,” Bossuet remembered, springing to his feet at once, “Another cup!”

“W-well I ought to – finish the job,” Joly faltered, indicating the needle still dangling from the thread on his again-bloodstained forehead.

“A drink first,” Bossuet insisted, shoving the cup of cognac into Joly’s hand and then pouring himself another measure of wine in his own glass. “Here, I’ll join you!”

They clinked their classes together. “To you, Monsieur Joly,” Bossuet said, “the intrepid doctor who has saved me from my ill-fortune at every turn!”

Joly stifled a blushing smile, and returned, “And to you, Monsieur Lesgle, my dearest friend, who dispels the world’s ills with naught but laughter!”

“Mmm, yes, to me, too,” Bossuet agreed, wringing one last smile from his nervous friend before they drank. 

When they had done, Joly immediately sprang to his feet again, handing cup and flask back to Bossuet and dashing back to his cabinet for scissors. With frenetic energy he cut the thread and set about cleaning the wound once more until Bossuet’s shining head was entirely free of external blood.

“There,” he said with enforced cheer as he dropped the bloody rags and needle into his already-murky basin and returned with a hand-mirror (also left behind by Musichetta) for Bossuet to inspect himself, “barely noticeable!”

“You’re mistaken! It’s quite conspicuous!” grinned Bossuet as he examined the sealed wound in the mirror. “But no mind; I daresay it shall be good fun to have a rugged scar! I can impress Bahorel with blatant lies about who I was fighting when I got it!”

Again Joly snorted a rather nervous laugh, and Bossuet laid aside the mirror. He then stood, took Joly by both shoulders and guided him gently into sitting down on the bed next to him. “And now, my dear boy,” he said, “now there’s nothing more to be done for _me_ – you must tell me: how are _you_ today?”

Joly looked away from him, swallowing, toward his knees. His trembling had almost subsided, but his hands fidgeted and one of his legs vibrated up and down convulsively. He opened his mouth but seemed to choke on his words, and gave a pained shrug.

“My guess is ‘none-too-good,’” Bossuet added softly, biting his lip. “ _Is_ it Musichetta? You reacted – _rather_ strongly to –”

“It’s not Musichetta,” Joly replied swiftly.

“Well, what, then?”

Joly’s lip trembled as he slowly, shamefacedly raised his eyes to Bossuet’s. In a tiny voice he admitted, “Cholera.” And the mere word seemed to shatter his brittle composure, for two tears squeezed out with it, and with a shuddering inhalation he buried his face again.

“Oh, _Joly_ ,” sighed Bossuet, squeezing his younger friend closer to him with both arms, so that his head rested on his shoulder, and stroking his back tenderly. Joly sniffled inelegantly with his eyes squeezed shut, and silently dampened the shoulder of Bossuet’s threadbare jacket. Neither spoke for a long moment, nor moved at all, save for rhythmic stroking and involuntary shuddering.

“I suppose,” Bossuet said softly at last, “you think you’ve got it yourself?” He said it kindly, without the least trace of mockery or judgment in his voice.

Joly shrugged hopelessly again. “I don’t – I don’t know . . .” he muttered. 

This was ever his problem. Despite his reputation, he was rarely _certain_ – it would almost be better to be certain! All knowledge and understanding his medical books gave – every malady that could _possibly_ strike him down – him his fancy wove into horror which he could not shut out. All the horrors, all the worst of his alarms, lurked in the realm of possibility – in doubt, that was of two minds: Was he really ill, or not? Could their revolution succeed, or not? Could they all survive their dangerous endeavor, or not? Was this dirty, sorry world, with its wonderfully intricate structures and balances in all its forms of life, the domain of a good and loving God, or _not_?

Bossuet reached his hand up to touch Joly’s forehead. “You don’t feel too hot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Cholera patients don’t!” Joly informed him. “Often their skin turns colder than normal, loses elasticity, and takes on a bluish tint from dehydration!”

“Well, well! You’re not _cold_ , either – and certainly your face is more red than blue!”

“Well, of course, I’d still be in early stages! One of the first signs is ‘nervous agitation!’ _I_ wouldn’t have got so dehydrated _yet_ – n-not until – after I’d started –”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Bossuet interrupted sharply, as with pitying vexation he could feel the vibrations start up once more in Joly’s body, pressed so close to his. “Don’t tell me what happens. Don’t _think_ about it, Joly!”

“I don’t need to tell you – to _see_ it, Bossuet,” Joly whispered. “I _have_ seen it, in the hospitals where I’m training – they’re _teeming_ with it, there’s barely room for everyone – God, if you’d seen their _faces_ , Bossuet! A-and the _smell_! And of course, the place fills up much faster than it empties, but still – every single day there are . . . so many _bodies_ to dispose of. And sometimes they’re so short of real doctors we have to help – c-carry them out and – pile them up . . .” He buried his face again.

Bossuet had gone rather cold himself, and he stroked Joly’s shaking shoulders with greater vigor. Was it any wonder his friend’s sensitive nerves were so shattered? It momentarily seemed a greater wonder that there existed any medical student in the world as calm and reasonable as Combeferre. Well, _fairly_ calm and reasonable.

“God,” Joly sighed at last in aggravation, “I’m being so damned _selfish_! All those poor people, suffering and _dying_ – poor old Lamarque! And I hide in here like a _coward_ and whimper over worrying _I’ve_ got it? I ought to just – to pity them, to pray for _their_ recovery, to – to research causes and cures! Like Enjolras says – _our lives_ are nothing in all of this!”

Bossuet sighed. “That man does have such a . . . _way_ of saying things.” He paused, not exactly wanting to contradict their fearless leader or even the general idea of the statement, but nonetheless almost outraged at the idea that Joly’s life was so disposable. “But come!” he said at last. “Come! If you’re resolved to be the one to single-handedly discover the cure for cholera, it would be of _utmost_ importance to look after your own health!”

“Oh, I’m _far_ from the only one working at it, Bossuet! There are so many medical scientists, with so much more knowledge and experience than I, trying to solve the mysteries of it! And not only them! I heard in the hospital yesterday that one wealthy philanthropist was offering to pay for more rooms, and further research! They were discussing temporarily opening a church hall to the overflow of patients! There are, really, _so_ many people trying to help! But even with all of that, nobody knows exactly how cholera spreads! All we _do_ know for certain is that the poor are being affected in much greater numbers than the rich . . .”

“So, naturally, the king doesn’t give a damn,” Bossuet muttered.

Joly nodded sadly. “Yes, I’m afraid until the system is changed, it has to just come down to individuals’ generosity,” he concurred, “under-funded scientists, and the one rich man in a thousand who seems to care at all!”

“Well, then! We’ll drink another round to the revolution, shall we?” Bossuet said, picking up their glasses and pouring from his flask of cognac. “And to the end of tyrants! God knows that’s why we’re doing all this!”

“Yes, but don’t use _all_ your cognac; it’s _expensive_ ; you’ll empty it!” Joly protested, reaching for his wine bottle, but Bossuet scoffed.

“Oh, you can get the next round! I’m sure we’ll find _something_ else to drink to! But now – to the end of tyrants! To the revolution!” And he held up his cup in a toast.

“To the revolution!” Joly echoed, clinking the cup, “and to Lamarque and – and everyone who’s doing _something_ to help!”

“Hear, hear!” They drank. Bossuet drained his glass in one go, but Joly took his time in thoughtful sips, and leaned back against the wall with a sigh. He was calmer now, his trembling subsiding again, but he still looked miserably out of sorts.

“Bossuet,” Joly said after a silence, staring into the dregs in cup, which he was resting on his chest, “if I _did_ die – would you be all right?”

Bossuet started, stared at him in momentary shock, but then quickly, good-humoredly shoved him. “Come, what’s all this? Don’t be morbid!”

“ _Would_ you, though?” Joly asked ardently, looking back up at him.

“Well, of _course_ not! I’d be heartbroken!” Bossuet sounded almost angry.

“No, but I mean – could you live with someone else? I was just – thinking about it, earlier, before you came in. Courfeyrac probably doesn’t have any more room, but – maybe Bahorel? Or, even Enjolras –”

“You thought you were _dying_ and you worried about _me_?” Bossuet interrupted. He couldn’t help laughing, though rather sadly. “Yes, you’re a _terribly_ selfish man, Joly!”

“Well, it’s not – it’s not _really_ so far-fetched, Bossuet; it’s not _all_ my morbid fancy! So many people _are_ dying of cholera – and all sorts of things – and I do spend more time among the sick than most . . .”

“Joly, my dear boy,” Bossuet said earnestly, laying a hand on his arm, “if you _do_ get sick, we’ll worry about _you_ first.”

Joly looked at him long and hard a moment, at first wanting to protest, but suddenly finding a lump in his throat. An overlooked third child of business-minded social-climbing _bourgeois_ , he had never before been a real priority to another living soul. In the end, he just choked out, “Th-thank you.” And he drained the remainder of his cup in an attempt to clear his throat.

Bossuet was holding up the wine bottle when he’d looked up again from clearing his eyes. “Your round?” he offered softly.

“Mmmm,” Joly agreed vaguely, as he tilted his head side to side experimentally, “ _if_ it’s the last round for now; I rather think this cognac is going to my head. It’s a bit strong, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, it was a birthday present from Grantaire . . .”

Joly snorted. “Impeccable taste, that man! But how on _earth_ did you make it last so long? You’ve never been much of one for careful rationing!”

“Complete freak accident,” Bossuet informed him, pouring the wine into their glasses, “which involved completely forgetting most of the evening of my birthday, when I got the bottle, and Bahorel only finding it again, inside a guitar case he apparently hadn’t opened since, just last week.” He handed Joly his glass. “Now – what are we drinking to?”

“Well – we’ve got to drink to Musichetta, haven’t we?”

“Certainly! To Musichetta!” Bossuet began, holding up his cup, “The finest girl in all of France!”

“To Musichetta!” Joly returned with a clink, “Who –” But he found himself muddled, suddenly, unable to find sufficient words to describe her. ‘The finest girl in all of France’ was all very well, but it wasn’t enough for him. Ought he just to describe her qualities – of generous heart, of inventive mind, of every facet of her stunning beauty? “Who is more to me – than I have words for,” he finished with difficulty.

They drank, and the mild, sweetish wine went down slightly more easily than the cognac, dulling and softening all functions of Joly’s frayed brain and nervous system – and as he dwelt on Musichetta, his eyes drifted unconsciously back to her shoes. “Bossuet,” his tongue pronounced before he could stop it, “s-speaking of Musichetta, can I ask you – one more – very absurd favor?”

“Ah, we’re getting to it, now, are we? Loosened your tongue sufficiently? I knew there had to be _something_ to do with her, after you –” He gestured vaguely toward the cabinet, where the glass shards of the broken bottle still lay. “Well, anyway, tell me! Any favor, my dear boy!”

“N-no, I can’t!” Joly decided abruptly, burying his face in shame. “It’s _too_ absurd!”

“What?” Bossuet pressed, shaking his shoulder slightly. “Come on, you can’t say _that_ and then not tell me! I am but a beast that _feeds_ on my comrades’ absurdities!”

Joly looked back up at him, his mouth pressed pensively. Now that the greater part of his panic had subsided, it was more and more giving way to crushing shame. Shame that he had, once again, gone to pieces, fallen into helpless hysterics over a mere nothing of thought. Shame that he let it so debilitate him, and so unbalance his mind, that his worries, repeated in the cool light of reason, sounded like laughable madness.

But this was Bossuet, and no one else; Bossuet, who – despite never leaving off laughing in general – had never once really laughed _at_ him, no matter the depths of absurdity his fears had lodged in, or what horrors his fancy had woven out of threads of knowledge. And for good or ill (probably ill), this particular absurd fear would not leave him.

“Musichetta’s shoes,” he said at last. “Can you – erm, take them away, someplace safe?”

“I don’t – _have_ someplace safe, other than this,” Bossuet replied with a confused frown, “but more to the point – _why_? You think you’re going to get raided by the police or something? What do they care about women’s shoes?”

“No, I – I just know she loves them so much, I – don’t want them to get burned.”

Bossuet stared blankly. “ _What_?”

“I’m not – experimenting with fire or anything,” Joly assured him. “It’s only – well, when someone gets really ill, or dies of their illness – they have to burn everything in the room – to destroy the contagion –”

“Do they _do_ that for cholera?” Bossuet interrupted. “I thought it was just for consumption!”

Joly threw his hands up helplessly. “We don’t know what causes it! And nothing’s more cleansing than fire! So it’s better to be safe! In the hospitals, of course, they can’t burn _everything_ – but the bodies often are burned!”

“So _you_ think,” Bossuet said slowly, “that if you die of cholera here in this room, and everything in the room has to be burned, Musichetta will be more upset to lose her _shoes_ than to lose _you_?!? Joly, that is _madness_!”

“Yes,” Joly agreed miserably, curling into himself, “it’s madness . . .”

“That’s not – I didn’t mean it like that,” Bossuet backtracked. “I only meant – well, you know what I meant! You’re a thousand times more precious to her than shoes!”

“It – wouldn’t be ideal, all around,” Joly shrugged. “But if she’s got to lose me, why should she lose her favorite shoes as well?”

“Well then, why stop at shoes?” Bossuet said wildly. “There’s a lovely lacy parasol hanging in the closet, and a number of little floral-patterned scarves or sashes or shawls or whatever they are, which – unless you’ve recently converted to the Jean Prouvaire school of fashion – I doubt are yours.”

“Also a few books of hers, some old gazettes, her knitting needles, one of her tennis rackets, some sheet music, a rouge compact, a couple of hats, a fan with a butterfly pattern I commissioned Feuilly to make for her birthday present this year, that hand-mirror –” Joly rattled off.

“See, she practically lives here, herself!”

“Did I tell you,” Joly began, suddenly laughing, “the story of that hand-mirror?”

Bossuet shook his head. “No, I think most of her things showed up those few weeks I was at Bahorel’s. That’s when she started coming over more, I think?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right! Well, you know my wall-mirror is rather small, and it’s situated at just the height where I can see my own face in it. Musichetta, tiny thing that she is, could barely get a good look in it standing on tiptoes – and you know she always likes to looks smart. So I told her, for the price of a kiss, I’d lift her up to look in the mirror; we agreed this was a fair exchange. But I’m afraid that, all too soon, like any man in a position of unchecked power, I became a tyrant and began to exorbitantly raise my price for services rendered – so that she was almost late in leaving! Until one day, she went into flat rebellion against the mirror-height monopoly. ‘I will not stand for this tyranny any longer,’ she said, and she reached for something at her waist like she was about to draw a _sword_ – but then she pulled out the hand-mirror!” Joly sighed, fondly and wistfully. “ _God_ , I love her so much!”

“I know, Joly,” Bossuet returned softly, with a fond smile. “You want her to have everything that delights her – and there are so many things! But listen, what do you want me to _do_? Take all her things and bury them in the woods? And mine, too, for good measure? And anything you have that you’d want to pass on to posterity?”

Joly shrugged. “I hear some convicts do that.”

“Yes, but we’re _not_ convicts! At least not _yet_! And you’re not _currently_ dying of cholera – at least not yet! We _can’t_ be worrying and planning so much for horrible things that _might_ happen in the future! There’s enough horrible things to deal with now!”

“But we talk about the future all the time!”

“The future we _hope_ for, my dear boy – not the future we fear!” Bossuet sighed and gathered his words again. “Listen – I’m no stranger to expecting everything to go horribly wrong. And you know as well as I that there might be all _manner_ of horrible futures for us that have _nothing_ to do with physical maladies! A revolution is never a _safe_ thing! But those aren’t the futures we spend our days planning for, are they?”

“Not our days,” Joly agreed softly. “But _nights_ , sometimes – I can’t help it.”

“Yes, but we don’t _talk_ about it, because – what’s the point?”

“It’s not conducive to raising revolutionary morale. People can at least laugh at the _other_ things I’m fretting about, but – not that. I think everybody must be worrying about it sometimes, but if they are, _nobody_ brings it up – well, except Grantaire, sometimes. When he’s drunk.” 

“Yes, and it’s _never_ helpful when we’re planning something!” Bossuet agreed. “But do you get my point in all this?”

“Yes,” Joly nodded, “the ideal future – is the one we must believe in.”

“Right, so instead of burying things in the woods, how about this: we take Musichetta dancing _together_ at the weekend – it’ll be better that way because _she_ never tires of dancing, but I’ll inevitably fall on my face, and with your knee and your shortness of breath you’ll need breaks, so we can take turns – and then at the end, if it still _really_ bothers you, we ask her to take her shoes home with her. Is that a reasonable compromise?”

“Very reasonable,” Joly breathed with a soft laugh, slumping wearily against the wall. “An entirely _too_ reasonable solution for an absurd problem.”

“You look tired,” Bossuet observed.

“Mmm, yes – all of a sudden,” Joly replied.

“Well, I’m not surprised – when I rolled over at three o’clock last night you were still burning the midnight oil! And it’s got to be exhausting, getting your nerves all tied in knots like that!”

Joly just nodded in agreement. 

Bossuet immediately stood up from the bed. “Well then, why not have a good lie-down? We’ve still got hours before evening!” Quietly he began to reposition his blankets and pillows around him, and gently tilt him to lay against the bed instead of the wall. Before he’d even finished adjusting the blankets, Joly was asleep.

He fell into a very absurd dream. He was sword-fighting, engaged in a fierce duel with someone for Musichetta’s honor – someone with a shadowed face and the vague suggestion of a police uniform. The man was quicker, stronger and more agile than his ungainly self, and as the metal clanged and sparked with each blow he parried, he was driven into a corner. The man held his sword up to Joly’s chest, prepared to finish him. 

  
“I will make you _eat_ this steel,” he said menacingly.

“Do as you like!” Joly shot back. “I need more iron in my diet anyway!”

And suddenly they were in a laboratory that was also a sort of forge, melting down the sword into liquid steel that was dripped into a beaker. He raised the beaker to his lips and drank down the molten metal. For a short moment, nothing happened, and then suddenly, the magnetism of the poles worked upon his newly iron-fortified blood and began to drag him northward. He crashed through a high glass window and soared up and up and further and further north. 

He soared through clouds, under rainbows, watched the fields and valleys and rivers and towns and hills and forests of France zooming by, thousands of feet below. He watched the tiny flecks that were sheep and cows and carriages trundling down the roadways. The wind hissed against him, but he was not cold – for here, the sun was closer. Soon, he would reach the coast and begin soaring over the sea, and see England! And he felt no fear – only the thrill of flight and freedom, far above all the horrors and injustices and absurdities and fears and cares of the human world below.

But the second after the thought occurred, he began to encounter problems. The port of Calais was zooming into view, but the sun was making him sweat – and as he sweated, trace amounts of the iron were leaving his body to be rained down below. Soon, there would no longer be enough iron within him for the force of magnetism to overpower the force of gravity. And just as he soared above the spire of a cathedral, the balance shifted in favor of gravity.

He plummeted earthward, and was just about to be impaled on the spire when Jehan’s voice reminded him that, after all, he had four wings to his name – and instantly they burst out of his back and with powerful flaps, he was able to divert his downward coarse and soar away. Now _this_ was even better, having wings to fly with! Now he controlled his course; he was completely free! He climbed into the air, higher and higher than the pole had forced him, but before too long the growing heat and the memory of Icarus made him fear to climb any higher; his wings weren’t secured by wax, but really – flying straight at the sun seemed more Enjolras’s domain.

But if he could not explore the heavens, he could at least explore the seas! He hadn’t been to the coast except once, as a child, and it fascinated him. He raced sea birds as he glided ten feet about the waves; he waved at boats and made the sailors’ jaws drop – and there, the spray of a whale! He could dive down there, submerge himself entirely and swim alongside that whale! He could get close enough to see all the encrusted barnacles, and just as easily rise up and fly away afterwards!

But no sooner had he surfaced from his whale-watching dive, flapping and dripping salt water, than the forces of nature fell once more into discord within. The gibbous moon, which had been hovering innocuously in another quadrant of sky from the sun, now claimed her rights. Hers was the power of swinging the tides, and now that his body was saturated in seawater, he, too, was in her thrall! He could feel, in his blood, her incessant push and pull. But he could feel, too, the remaining pull of the magnetic north. His wings were strong in enough to briefly divert the course, but could do nothing against two forces of nature pulling him in opposing directions! His blood seemed to scream in confusion, and just when he was certain that the forces of nature were about to rend his feeble body into shreds, he awoke with a start.

He’d barely blinked the ceiling into focus when he nearly gasped. “I slept the wrong way!” he breathed in horror, hurriedly feeling his pulse rate. “My blood will be in rebellion!” 

“Well, glad your blood is finally on board with the cause,” came Bossuet’s voice, wholly unconcerned. As he let his hand fall away from his neck, Joly rolled over to face his friend. He found him sitting at the desk in front of the window, with the golden sunbeams of the late spring’s late afternoon pouring in upon him, and casually perusing a book. He looked over at him with a smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Can’t complain, all cognac considered,” Joly yawned, sitting up slowly and rubbing his head.

“Here, got you this,” said Bossuet, handing him a little paper sack containing a chocolate cream puff, “ _amuse-bouche._ ”

“Oh! Thanks,” he said thoughtfully, and began to eagerly dig in.

“Interesting book, this,” Bossuet commented, holding up the one he’d been perusing, which was entitled _Comical History of the States and Empires of the Moon_. “Though I’m not sure the way this fellow _gets_ to the moon would stand up to experimentation!”

“Mmm, yes – Monsieur de Bergerac,” Joly said, just swallowing a bite of cream puff. “Mixing pure whimsical invention with his knowledge of the cosmos! And he wrote plays, too! Some people say he was a sort of rival to Molière!”

“Well, no doubt that’s a point in his favor, in your view! As I recall, you couldn’t find anything remotely funny about _The Imaginary Invalid_.” This was skirting a somewhat sensitive topic: Joly’s opinion of _The Imaginary Invalid_ (which had genuinely hurt his feelings) and his (slightly spiteful) extrapolation therefrom that _all_ Molière must be humorless and mean-spirited, had actually caused a fight with Musichetta when they’d first gone to see it.

“There _wasn’t_ anything funny!” Joly insisted. “ _This_ book, though, Musichetta thinks I really _will_ like, so she lent it to me. She says it’s a good example of how a little knowledge of science coupled with a little imagination can create not only horrors, but wonders as well! And I meant to make good progress this afternoon, but . . .”

“Well, you had a patient to attend to, didn’t you?” Bossuet laughed. “I and my old bald head can vouch for _that_ , if she asks! That is – _if_ you’re feeling up to going out tonight. I saw her when I was out; she said she’d be around at the Corinthe at suppertime if we wanted to dine with her – and then meeting the boys at the Musain after? Enjolras reckons we’ve got to discuss the implications of – how things stand with Lamarque.”

“Well, would he forgive us if we _didn’t_ show up to that?” Joly laughed.

“’Course he would! He is our _friend_ , Joly! He knows we’re human!”

“I know,” Joly agreed, “I just – don’t like to disappoint him.”

“Nobody does,” Bossuet concurred. “But if you do go, Bahorel says he’ll bring his dominoes again – and between his impatience and your nerves, we’ve got a bet going who’ll knock it all down first. Oh! And Jehan promised to share a new poem – the subject: an unhappy man of duty, who submerges himself in the River Lethe to forget his past allegiances!”

“His last poem was about a thunderstorm,” Joly remembered, “and it was so vivid it made me shiver!”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be gratified to know his poetry can affect people like that! He’ll blush and hide his face for half an hour, if you tell him!”

“Although, making _me_ tremble is hardly high praise,” Joly observed with a self-deprecating laugh, “since practically everything does, it seems. Dear Jehan! Oh, and perhaps Combeferre will tell us how he’s getting on with his hieroglyphs! Do you know, I think I _am_ up for going out!”

“Excellent!”

“Although . . . now I think of it, I’ve got nothing to wear,” Joly mournfully observed. “My clothes from earlier got dirty, and all the clean ones are hanging out to dry and –” he massaged his bad knee meaningfully, “– it rained while I was asleep, didn’t it?”

“Well, what did you think I went out for?” Bossuet grinned, reaching to pick up something on the other side of the desk, and presenting him proudly with a fresh stack of his own clean clothes.

“You – you rescued these from the rain? Before it started?” Joly asked as he accepted them, suddenly noticing for the first that his floor had been cleared of all dirty clothes and broken glass, and his basin emptied of murky water, bloody rags and needles. “And you –”

“Took the dirty things to be cleaned, yes,” Bossuet agreed.

“You didn’t have to do all that!”

“Well, you can’t think I’d just be a _complete_ leech on your charity and medical aid, my dear boy! I’ve got to do _something_ to earn my keep here!”

“Well, _first_ of all,” Joly began as he stood and started to dress, “leeches are amazing creatures! Wonderfully helpful for blood-letting!” He buckled his belt and then began digging through the stack for a good waistcoat. “Secondly, both medical care and housing are fundamental human rights that shouldn’t _have_ to be earned, and it is an absolute _crime_ _against_ _humanity_ that our system has made it so that you and so many people can’t afford them! Thus, as I say, until that changes, it must fall to the collective care of individual family members and friends to make up for that negligence!” He buttoned the final button of his waistcoat, and dug out a complementary cravat. “And thirdly – thirdly, my dear fellow – I think you do quite enough for me already in – in pulling me out of my own head . . .”

His eyes were bashfully downcast as he pulled on a jacket and reached for his boots. Bossuet then handed him his silver-tipped cane, and dragged him up to examine himself in the wall-mirror. Joly was unable to resist briefly studying his tongue, but in short order he pressed his cane to his nose and grinned in his signature stance. “Well, you think I’ll do?”

“Dashing in the extreme, my dear boy!” Bossuet said heartily, ruffling his hair to make it becomingly tousled instead of the result of his afternoon nap. “Darling Musichetta will swoon! She – probably won’t look twice at me,” he added in a softer tone, crowding his head in to look in the small mirror as well, and pensively tracing his stitched scar with fingers.

“Nonsense!” Joly comforted him. “Rugged scars and threadbare jackets are merely another school of dashing! And our Musichetta, who knows our _souls_ , would never be so shallow, anyway! If _anything_ could add to it, it’d be a good hat . . .” And scanning very briefly, he soon located a jaunty hat sitting on his desk beside his books, and instantly snatched it up.

“This’ll do nicely,” he said, reaching up to place it atop his taller friend’s head. But suddenly he paused and looked more closely at it. “But hang on,” he said, “isn’t this Courfeyrac’s hat?”

“Oh, yes!” Bossuet laughed, reclaiming the hat and then opening the door and waiting for Joly to fasten his coat and fetch an umbrella, “I forgot! I ran into _him_ when I was out as well, and he thought since I was going to get clothes cleaned anyway, could I please also take a couple of his shirts and cravats?” Now equipped for rain, Bossuet closed the door behind them, Joly locked it, and they made their way to the stairs, where he resumed his tale. “So, he made me hold the hat while he dug them out of a bag, and oh, could I please go to these specific washerwomen, because they _really_ need the money? Never mind that where they operate is halfway to Montparnasse! And the upshot was, he never got his hat back, and I had to lug that sack of clothes several blocks out of my way to avoid any question of betrayal from our _regular_ washerwomen, and _then_ all the way out past the Luxembourg Gardens to find those others!” He shook his head with a huff of amused indignation. “Ah well,” he sighed, “at least I got cream puffs. And I managed to get three whole bites of mine before I dropped it in a mud puddle!”

“My God,” giggled Joly, reaching the bottom of the stairs, “our mistress Gravity is really testing you today!”

“As she does, the rogue,” Bossuet grinned. “Oh, and he asked after you, by the way – Courfeyrac, I mean. He reckoned both you and Marius looked a little haunted today.”

“Oh? I wonder what’s wrong with Marius!” Joly frowned thoughtfully as they came out into the street. “Anyway, what did you tell him about me?”

Bossuet shrugged. “The truth, more or less.”

“What, that you’d been – listening to the ravings of a madman?” Joly asked, with a bitter chuckle. “That I’d been hipped by ‘the horrors’ like an old woman? Or that you’d come upon me in a fit of _crying_ , too scared to ever leave the room again? I think, given the choice, I’d rather he thought me a madman than a coward.”

“Joly, he _doesn’t_ think that! _Nobody_ thinks that!”

“No?”

“No,” Bossuet said firmly. He stopped walking a moment to place his hand on Joly’s shoulder. “Listen, Joly,” he said earnestly, “your mind, for whatever reason, is _constantly_ insisting that the world is full of horrors, waiting for you around every corner, trying to rain down agonizing death upon you, and _yet_ – you still go out into that horror, every day, _cheerfully_ , to try and improve it! That is _not_ what I call a coward, Joly!”

Joly blinked, repressing a blushing smile, momentarily struggling for speech. “Well, _you_ go out,” he said hoarsely at last, “when the world really _is_ trying to rain agonizing death upon you!”

Bossuet snorted, and suddenly a dam burst both of them broke into a violent fit of laughter until they were nearly doubled over. They kept on laughing, clutching at each other to stay on their feet, and drawing odd looks from passersby. It was minutes before they had regained enough composure to stand up straight and speak somewhat coherently. They resumed their walk, occasionally seized by residual giggles, and were still discussing the nature and various shades of courage as it pertained to everyone they knew (“I don’t think Musichetta’s afraid of anything!” “She’s afraid of rats!” “Well, that’s just common sense; rats carry disease! . . . Do you think we ought to get a cat?”) when, in rounding a corner, they came upon an old beggar woman, who immediately approached them. Her breath came hard, and her voice was rasping.

“Spare a sou, young sirs?”

“A franc if I can find one, Madame!” Joly told her heartily, and set about digging through his pockets.

“Yes,” Bossuet added, “and another from m–” He stopped short as he felt his fingers poke through a hole – a hole in the bottom of his coin-pocket, from which every last sou in his possession had fallen. It was empty and useless; all his money was gone.

He burst out laughing again. “Well, my dear boy,” he informed Joly, with another clap to his shoulder, “it looks like you’re buying dinner tonight!”

“Oh _no_!” breathed Joly in sympathetic horror, pausing in ransacking his own pockets to observe Bossuet’s plight. “How much was in there? Was that all you had?”

“Evil indeed are the times when even a worn old coat cannot be trusted,” the beggar woman observed grimly.

“Oh no, it’s all right, old friend,” Bossuet told his coat tenderly, “everything falls apart sometimes! Perhaps you’ve only taken all our talk of wealth redistribution to heart! No doubt whoever finds those coins will be happy, and have use for them! Well, take them, with my blessing!” He turned regretfully to the beggar woman. “Sorry, Madame,” he told her sincerely, “afraid I can’t help you today.”

“But I can!” Joly said at once, as he finally fished out two francs, one from each of them and pressed them into her hands with a kind smile.

The beggar woman was thoroughly moved. “Oh, _bless_ you, young man!” she cried, kissing his hands fervently. “You’re an _angel_!” Then suddenly she broke into a fit of coughing, all over his front also onto his captive hands. 

And though Joly held his smiling mouth rigidly still, Bossuet could see the light behind his eyes descending into the void. “N-n-not at all, Madame!” he stammered, extricating his hands with difficulty as the woman straightened up, sniffling. 

She breathed a word of apology, but the damage was done.

“Well, we should be going!” Bossuet said, seizing Joly by the shoulder. “We hope those francs are a blessing to you!”  
  


“G-get something – for that cough,” Joly added weakly as he was shuffled past her.

“And if you need any more,” Bossuet added, turning to look back at her as he frog-marched Joly away, “feel free to check along the road behind us!”

When they had rounded the corner onto the very street that brought the Corinthe into view, and were sufficiently out of the earshot of the poor old woman, Joly had no further compunctions in giving full vent to his repressed panic. However, he could find no adequate expression for it, other than throwing himself against the wall and flailing his hands rather helplessly, with a desperate expression, and stammering, “Bossuet – I – she – m-my hands –”

“I know,” Bossuet assured him gravely, as if he’d said something intelligible. “We’ve got to, um –” He had reached into his ragged coat pockets (those that were still of use) for any solution, but when he felt one, he sighed.

Thus, the remainder of his flask of fancy cognac was the sacrifice for Joly’s peace of mind. It was poured out over his contaminated hands, and Joly’s own handkerchief unceremoniously yanked from his pocket to mop them off. But Bossuet gave him another smile and said, “There now, you should be all right!”

Joly was very sensible of the gravity of this sacrifice. “It was – such a fine cognac!” he breathed in distress. “A-and you had to _waste_ it like this!”

“No _wasted_ ,” Bossuet assured him tiredly, “but a tragic loss, nonetheless! We must petition Jehan to write a eulogy for the noble end of such an exceptional spirit! And then petition Grantaire to replace it on my next birthday! After all,” he grinned, "July’s not so _very_ far off!”

Joly smiled. In spite of everything, in spite of the thousand possibilities of which malady the old woman had, and the positive likelihood that it had penetrated his feeble flesh even with his hands sterilized – and the subsequent fluttering of his nerves, his heart, his breath – he smiled. He couldn’t help it in the face of Bossuet’s unrelenting good humor. It was as infectious as any disease.

“P-poor old woman!” he breathed at last. “I do hope it wasn’t consumption! You know they _do_ burn all your things for that!”

“Yes, yes, and where would I live? And what would happen to Musichetta’s lovely shoes? And how are you going to get along without your pocket-handkerchief that I just ruined? But – you’re a little _sturdier_ now than you were earlier, I think.” Bossuet held him now by both shoulders and locked eyes with him intensely “So we’re not going to let this ruin our evening, are we, Joly?”

Joly took in a huge, shaky breath. As he slowly exhaled, he tried to release with it all the chaos of fear and trembling that had invaded his brain. When he had done, he smiled somewhat tightly, and replied, honestly, “No.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bossuet beamed, massaging his shoulders. “You just let all that nonsense – flow right off your back!”

“Like a duck!” Joly supplied helpfully.

“Yes, my dear, winged fellow,” chuckled Bossuet, warmly and heartily, “you are a brave, resilient duck!” He spread his arms wide. “Now, come here.”

At once they caught one another in a fierce embrace – of gratitude, of reassurance, and of simple brotherhood. Whatever tension was still constricting Joly’s chest seemed to melt away in Bossuet’s sturdy arms, and he felt safer and surer than he had all day. For Bossuet’s part, feeling the steady rhythm of that fluttered, generous heart that beat against his own made him really question whether Fortune had dealt him such a bad hand, after all.

At long last, they broke apart, and silently entered the Corinthe, where Musichetta awaited them, clever, stunning, delightful and delighted with them; Afterwards, they met up with the rest of their friends at the Musain, where there was good cheer and poetry and linguistic discovery and crafts and games and debates and tirades and agreements and assignments and tales of love and tales of valor – and where they were, as ever, the merriest of the party.

**Author's Note:**

> Some people can have one simple idea, write about it, and be done. Some people are not me . . . 
> 
> You may cry shame on me for writing this (my first Les Mis fic!) without having read all of the Brick. It's based on an amalgam of the bits of the Brick I have read, the musical (especially the 2012 film, due to ease of access), a tiny bit from my beloved “Shoujo Cosette” anime, some general familiarity from the fandom, and what I've learned of history. Someday soon I hope, I'll get past this Napoleon nonsense and finish that book for real! Then I shall feel no shame in writing as many of these sorts of fics as I like!
> 
> Also based on the fact that I once hid under my covers finding the dirty old world too scary to face after I read a mere *reference* to an admired celebrity having food poisoning, amid a slew of variously graphic Facebook laments of ill friends spread across the nation. And worldwide pandemics, you may guess, are somewhat trying on the nerves of hypochondriacs as well. Then I was reminded of this historical cholera outbreak, and cholera is really gross and horrifying. (For those concerned, a Scottish scientist named Thomas Latta was just making a breakthrough with the saline drip around this time, which helped many cholera patients recover; he published his findings about it on 23 June, 1832.) Thus, at the height of my own wanting to overthrow the government, this dear old "malade imaginaire" revolutionary spoke to me across the centuries in solidarity, so I had to honor him, and project on him, and comfort him with friendship as often I have been myself. Anyway, I'm very much not a medical student, so I hope nothing here was too upsetting or too inaccurate, either medically, historically, or story-wise! I did a fair amount of historical research, on topics ranging from the history of male undergarments, to laundry, to concussions, to flasks, to umbrellas, to the medical understanding of cholera, to Parisian geography, to the relative value of francs and sous (exactly how generous was Joly to that beggar woman?), to the difference between an aperitif and an amuse-bouche, but I couldn’t always find the answers I wanted, and I can’t promise I fact-checked absolutely everything, so please view this with indulgence for any ignorance or anachronisms.
> 
> Talk to me and let me know if you liked it! Either here or at my tumblr, windmilltothestars! Les Mis fandom, please adopt me. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying! Thank you so very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)


End file.
